“I will not whip you into submission,” he told her. “Nor will I tie you hand and foot and toss you into the carriage and convey you to London as my prisoner. But I do say that we will be going there next week. I have duties and responsibilities. So do you. I was born for this. I was never particularly thrilled at the prospect. Indeed, I was even careless of the reality of it when I was eighteen and rode off to war with crusading zeal. My father still stood between me and the title at that time, and he seemed a firm enough bulwark. But he died of what seemed like a simple chill, and here I am. And there you are. You married me with your eyes wide open. You can cower here if you choose. I cannot—or, rather I will not—force you into accompanying me next week. But remember, Chloe, that in addition to being my duchess you will in all probability be the mother of a future duke. My son. How proud will he be of a mother who is afraid to show her nose to the beau monde lest someone bite it off? How happy will my daughters be with a mother who is afraid to take them to town when the time comes for them to seek husbands lest the ton dare find something in her about which to gossip?”
“I am not afraid,” she protested.
“And besides,” he said, “if you will not come with me to do your duty to society, you need to come to do your duty to me. You need to be bred.”
Her hand was stinging suddenly, and she realized in some shock that she had slapped him across one cheek.
There was a heavy silence as he straightened up to stand beside the bed.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice tight. “That was crude.”
“I am so sorry.” Chloe spoke almost simultaneously. Her teeth were chattering. “Did I hurt you?”
Ridiculous question. She had hit him across the scarred side of his face.
“Yes,” he said. “But I would have slapped me too if I had been you.”
Chloe flexed her hand. It was hot and throbbing. She had never slapped anyone before.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and turned to look at her.
“Certain members of the ton once shunned you,” he said, “because your sister had eloped with a married man. A known rake who had toyed with your affections cut your acquaintance with calculated disdain. Several years later—last year—it was discovered that you bore a passing resemblance to a lady who happened to be taking the ton by storm during her debut Season in London, and gossiping tongues began to wag with the salacious rumor that her father once paid court to your mother. So both those visits to London left you hurt. Understandably, you want nothing more to do with society. In retrospect, perhaps it was not wise of you to marry an earl who was an elderly duke’s heir. But you did just that. And as a result you now find yourself being called upon to face society yet again—in the prominent role of a duchess this time. Are you going to do it, Chloe? Or are you going to allow fear to keep you here in hiding for the rest of your life?”
“I am not afraid.”
“What do you call it, then?” he asked her.
She realized something suddenly. Graham had said he was not sure Ralph had changed fundamentally since his days in school. Now, she suddenly realized that in an important way, he was right. She could feel the power of his persuasiveness. Her will was being worn down by it.
“Is this how you did it when you were a boy?” she asked him. “Is this how you gathered other boys about you like slaves? Is this how you persuaded them to do whatever you wanted them to do, even against their will and their better judgment? Is this how you persuaded your friends to go to war with you?”
He shot to his feet as though she had slapped him again, and she realized too late the viciousness of what she had said.
He stood with his back to her for a few moments while her words seemed to hang in the air between them, like a physical presence. Then he went down the steps and across the room and out the door, all so abruptly that she could do nothing to stop him but stretch out one ineffectual arm.
“Ralph,” she said. But the sound of her voice came at the same moment that the door clicked shut behind him.
She could not run after him. She was naked beneath the sheet. She bowed her head and set her forehead against her raised knees as she wrapped her arms about them.
* * *
It was full daylight by the time Chloe had pulled on her creased clothes and gone to her own room to wash and comb her hair and change into a freshly ironed dress. She made her way down to the breakfast parlor on slightly shaky legs. Early as it still was, Ralph had already eaten and was about to leave the room. He was fully, very correctly clothed, she saw.
Before she could say anything, he made her a slight, formal bow.
“I need to spend most of the day in the study with Lloyd and my steward,” he told her. “Forgive me for leaving you to eat alone and to occupy yourself for the rest of the day.”
She had come down with a head crammed full of things to say—apologies, explanations, questions. She had come down prepared to be calm and sensible, prepared to discuss, to come to some sort of agreement that would suit them both. Everything she had planned to say fled without a trace.
“Oh, you must not concern yourself about me,” she assured him with bright cheerfulness. “I need to spend some time with Mrs. Loftus. I have much to learn. And she knows of someone who may be suitable as my lady’s maid. I will need to meet the girl to see if I agree. And I really ought to call upon Mrs. Booth, who was not well enough to attend the funeral. I should make a courtesy call at the vicarage too. And I have my embroidery and . . .”